


If You Forget Yourself

by kaara



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaara/pseuds/kaara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(remember me). Brandt would never get over Croatia. He was hardwired for remembrance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Forget Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a headcanon for william brandt. and then it expanded into something else. i really am sorry, brandt baby, for hurting you. but i’m not. sort of. and slight ethan/brandt feelings because i kind of ship them oh let me be. the dream sequence with the secretary was (i think) inspired by inception because i was watching it on mute with the violin concerto playing in the background while i write this. i multi-task. a lot. the story of my life. aha ha. i also like panda. what am i talking about. this is actually a ~*serious fanfiction*~ i swear.

Brandt would never get over Croatia. He would accept it because he understood the rationale behind such operation. He knew how important the mission was (in retrospect), knew how important Ethan Hunt was (the Secretary’s to-go man when it came to saving the world; the superhero of superspies) and by default, how important Julia Hunt was. He understood that in the massive underground world of MIF, he was a tiny pawn on a giant chessboard of criss-crossing political intentions. Unlike Ethan Hunt, he was expendable.

( _“The mission always comes first,” his field trainer once told him. A man with smiles that never reached his frost-blue eyes and a penchant for medieval tortures. Brandt had looked up to him from the floor, bruised and battered and too exhausted to even throw up the blood welling inside his mouth. “You are cogs,” the trainer continued, smile cutting a jagged edge across his face. “You will be replaced if you’re useless in the grand scheme of things. Do you understand, Number Thirteen?”_

 _“Yes,” Brandt had said. He was young and valiant and full of ideals, the brand of white knight designed for martyrdom. He blinked and swallowed, copper staining his teeth and throat. He stood up, legs shaking and lungs screaming for oxygen. “Yes, sir.”_ )

The night Ethan told him about Julia ( _this is the truth, Brandt, are you in or not?_ ), he felt immense relief. As if he was finally able to exhale after holding his breath for much, much too long. He took up the offered mobile phone and grinned, wide and carefree at Ethan like he hadn’t for ages. It was later, sequestered in the comfort of his apartment, that the hurt kicked in. It came as a surprise, halfway through a report from one of their Middle East correspondents, and he reeled from the sudden ache under the trapping of his ribcage.

 _You are expendable_ , it said. Wore the voice of his trainer down to each condescending syllable.  _Do you understand, Number Thirteen?_

His gasps were quiet and stifled, and Brandt couldn’t find refuge in sleep.

 

 

 

He nearly died twice in their next mission. Jane patched up the hole punched through by a stray bullet as best as she could, miraculous inches over his heart, the corners of her mouth tight with worry. She said nothing as Benji said everything. Brandt bit back a scream when Jane jostled his dislocated right shoulder and her lips loosened into something vaguely apologetic.

Ethan looked at Brandt with eyes dark and inscrutable.

 

 

 

When he realised that the Petronas Twin Towers were crumbling to the ground it was too late to do anything. The surrounding area of Kuala Lumpur was utterly devastated after a string of underground explosions set off by an over-zealous religious sect and Brandt didn’t have a choice but to jump. The last thing he remembered was Benji and Jane’s horrified screams through the comm.

 

 

 

He woke up in a white room. He closed his eyes and counted each heartbeat until he sunk back into that lovely stretch of darkness.

 

 

 

“Benji’s convinced that you should be on suicide watch,” Ethan said one day, three months after Brandt was discharged from the hospital (he drank enough vending-machine coffees that he started seeing blurry lines, until the doctor finally decided to let him walk). Ethan’s voice was neutral when he added, “Jane thinks you should go on a vacation.”

They were wading through a swamp somewhere in the depth of the Amazon and their comm had buzzed static through the humid air since the last three hours, Benji’s chatter replaced by oppressive, humid silence. Brandt lowered his machete and checked the GPS, squinted at its screen through sweat-tipped eyelashes. Still a few kilometres to go until the pick-up point. He studiously ignored Ethan. 

“Brandt?”

The voice clamoured at the back of his head ( _you are our unlucky thirteenth, Mister Brandt, let’s see how long you’ll last_ ) and he struggled to keep his composure, swung his machete in calculated, vicious arcs. “I’m fine.”

They resumed silence. Ethan made no further attempt at conversations and Brandt was thankful for small mercies. He didn’t think he could handle discussing that with anyone, wouldn’t want any of it to get into his file. ( _Signs of mental distress, useless cogs, cease and desist immediately._  He met the company’s psychologist once, after Croatia, and her carefully-blank face and the way she tapped her pen against her notepad sent fear skittering to the pit of his stomach). The Jeep was already waiting when they stumbled into the small clearing and Jane greeted them with a strained smile, her eyes darting from Ethan to Brandt. She updated them on the mission as soon as they were on the move, statistics mixed with the data they managed to retrieve from the target’s network. Brandt allowed the tension to ebb from the razor-straight line of his spine, succumbing to the trace of weariness carved deep into his bones. 

He turned and noticed Ethan staring at him, face unreadable. Brandt didn’t get the chance to ask, because Jane suddenly hissed a curse as the Jeep corkscrewed into crazy angles. Their guns were out within seconds and he ducked to avoid bullets whistling past his head. 

He was too busy covering Ethan’s back to notice the tranquilliser darts from the other direction.

 

 

 

Brandt slipped gradually into consciousness, feverish skin sticking to the cool metal of whatever horizontal surface his captors had strapped him to. He was naked and spread-eagled, stretched a few inches shy from being excruciating. There’s some kind of a muscle relaxant pumped through his system and it took him too-long seconds to move his fingers as he squinted against the glare of bright fluorescent. He couldn’t really see anything and the only thing he could pick up was the low hum of air conditioner over the silence.

“Welcome, Agent Brandt.”

He didn’t recognise the voice. The accent was heavily British, slightly effeminate and underlined with a promise of barbwires. Training kicked in and he catalogued it automatically for further reference. When he survived this.  _If_  he survived this. “Where are the others?” His throat was sandpaper dry and the words tumbled off his tongue clumsily. He winced at the rough gravel of his voice.

“How touching.” The voice trailed off into a rumble of deep chuckles, amusement bleeding from its undertone. “I assure you, they are the least of your worries. Now, Agent Brandt, shall we get down to business?”

Relief made him exhale shakily, even when he knew enough not to trust. He didn’t want to think about the alternative. (Because Ethan would be alive. And Jane. Ethan and his team of survivors). They just needed to hang on until Benji pulled through. And Brandt would buy them enough time. He had always been good at stalling. “I have nothing to say.”

“A pity. My benefactors, I’m afraid, insist on answers to their questions. It would be better for both of us if you’d be so kind as to oblige.”

Brandt pressed his lips into a thin line and closed his eyes in defiance. He could hear scrapes of metal against metal, the clicks of something sharp and deadly cutting through the still air. Fear surfaced briefly in his head and he shut it out as soon as he recognised it. 

He was expendable. He had no right to indulge in fears.

The voice said, with the kind of patience one used on disobedient pets, “Tsk tsk. Very well then. Let’s see if I can persuade you to change your mind.”

 

 

 

Brandt screamed.

He screamed for hours and hours and hours. Endless. He felt like a massive bruise, blacks blues reds, his body a constant litany of  _painpainpain_. His fingers were broken somewhere within the first fifteen minutes in slow, methodical snaps. Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto trilled in the background as they dipped a knife into his skin, cut him open with the grace of a seasoned professional. Heated metal came next. They cauterised the lacerations, went back to the knife to open him up only to close the gaping wounds carefully, cruelly. Over and over again. He fainted, woke up when a cloth slapped across his face and he couldn’t breathe through the cascade of water. They paused in between sessions, that voice coaxing him to talk ( _and I’ll make the sweet, sweet pain go away, dearest Agent Brandt_ ). He lost coherence when they worked on his legs. He lost his voice when they moved to his inner thighs, to his cock. 

Blood bubbled in his throat, spilled over his lips and Brandt screamed soundlessly, soundlessly. 

 

 

 

He dreamt of Russia. Walking along the Arbat with the Secretary, the collars of their coats turned up against the cold. Brandt looked up at the sky, smudged in darker shades of watercolour and he noticed the Secretary lighting up a cigarette. Its tip glowed dim red over the shadows, smoke curling in faint wisps around his grave face. Brandt stared at the bullet hole under his hairline.

 _Ghosts can’t do anything_ , the Secretary said. His voice echoed and that was when Brandt noticed that the Arbat was empty except for them.

Brandt shook his head.  _I’m not sure I follow, sir._

The Secretary smiled. He reached out a hand, squeezed Brandt’s shoulder gently. _Stay alive, son._

_Sir, I-_

_You need to wake up._

 

 

 

Brandt woke up. He woke up and screamed. 

 

 

 

There were chrysanthemums in his garden. There were Michaelmas daisies and carnations and a few others he didn’t quite recognise. He smoothed a hand over the opened page of a horticulture book on his lap and wondered if his gardener would be amiable enough to spare him a few minutes for a quick discussion. He stared at the flowers, at muted colours over autumnal palette until he realised with a start that the flower beds were edged with bones.

_Other people use closets for their skeletons. But I guess a garden is more environmental-friendly._

Brandt stifled the urge to reach for a gun he knew he didn’t have. It was the Secretary, lit cigarette tucked into one corner of his mouth and comfortably inclined in the wicker seat next to Brandt’s wheelchair. The bullet hole was near invisible in the creeping twilight.  _Hello, sir._

_You need to wake up._

_I did_. Brandt marked the page he was reading and closed the book. He sighed.  _Or I thought I did._

The Secretary leaned forward, his face kind and regretful.  _Wake up now. You must wake up._  

Brandt closed his eyes.

 

 

 

“Wake up, Brandt.”

He opened his eyes and waited to adjust to the dim lighting, silhouettes crowding the edge of his vision. He breathed without much difficulty but he couldn’t move, limbs weighted down by more than gravity. He noticed the lingering scent of antiseptic, the quiet murmur somewhere behind a door that separated him from the rest of the world. He remembered the Secretary, he remembered pain so intense he wished he didn’t remember-

“Brandt.”

Ethan. He blinked, tried to open his mouth and a jolt of pain followed the attempt. 

“Don’t move.” The silhouettes sharpened and Brandt could make out Ethan’s profile, Ethan’s face. Something wet and cold touched his lips and he jerked violently at the first trickle of water ( _he’ll drown and they’ll move on to Jane, to Ethan and he needs more time oh god please_ ). There were warm hands pressing him down, firm and gentle, and Ethan’s voice murmured soothing nothings. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

He stilled at the word.  _Safe_. Brandt searched for the Secretary, wondered if he would see the bullet hole every single time but there was only Ethan.

“It’s okay,” Ethan repeated. He looked tired and grim, wore dark smudges under his eyes and a bandage across his left cheek. His fingers fluttered over the side of Brandt’s face. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

Brandt exhaled slowly. Ethan was safe. That was enough.

 

 

 

Jane came armed with sandwiches and a container of soup, Benji in tow. Her smile was tentative when she reached for him and Brandt allowed her to touch because she looked intact and unharmed, except for several cuts and bruises that blossomed above the meagre amount of skin her turtleneck sweater bared. Benji alternated between relief and apprehension, moving around Brandt like he was afraid Brandt would break into tiny china pieces if he talked too much, too loudly. Ethan stayed in his designated chair throughout the visit and somehow managed to keep his hands on Brandt, skin against skin. If Jane or Benji noticed, they said nothing.

 

 

 

“What happened?” he asked when he was finally strong enough to sit, propped up in a nest of pillows. He was hurting everywhere and the painkillers were not really helping. Ethan looked up from the report he was reading at Brandt’s question. “What happened to you and Jane?”

Ethan closed the report and moved closer, reached up to brush errant hair from Brandt’s forehead. “They kept us in a room. They only wanted you.”

Brandt scowled. He had been almost certain that Ethan was the target. “But why?”

“Why?” Ethan parroted. His tone was incredulous. “What do you mean ‘why’?”

“You are the important one.” 

Ethan’s face faltered into a look of surprise, only for a second before it smoothed over. “I’m not.”

It felt like a reprimand, like anger and Brandt was too tired to try and understand. He leaned back, closed his eyes to concentrate on the warm weight of Ethan’s hand. He wished he could move his fingers and return the touch. “I’m glad they didn’t do anything to you. And Jane.”

“Brandt.” Ethan’s voice was low and insistent. Brandt cracked an eye open despite his body’s protest. Ethan was leaning over him and his face was a map of barely-veiled anguish, an expression Brandt had never seen on Ethan’s face before. “They tortured you for six hours.”

“I’ve been through RTI.” It was an information available in his file. Resistance To Interrogation had always been one of the most important aspects of training. Brandt doubted that Ethan had not seen it. “My trainer was former Spetsnaz. He made sure we covered everything. ” The expression etched deeper into Ethan’s face and Brandt puzzled over it. He had meant to offer comfort. “What’s wrong, Ethan?”

“You-” Ethan swallowed and his eyes hardened. “What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“When they-” he cut himself off, made a vague gesture over Brandt’s immobile body. There was a folder at the foot of his bed, probably listed every single thing that had been done to him and the amount of damage his system had sustained. “Tell me.”

Brandt made an effort to shrug. It hurt and the sharp ache helped him focus. “Time. We needed time and I was sure Benji would find us. I couldn’t let them get to you and Jane.”

“We could’ve handled it.” 

“You’re import-“

“Goddamnit, Brandt!”

He jerked in surprise and fear, fragmented remnants of the steel, the knife and the heat slamming back into him in that split second. The were two voices screaming inside his head, his trainer’s ( _useless cogs, Number Thirteen, useless!_ ) and the one who wielded the instruments of torture ( _do try and speak up, Agent Brandt, I can’t hear you_ ). His body resisted the movement, locked up into excruciating pain that wrenched a scream from Brandt’s throat. Lines on monitors around him jumped erratically in warning and Ethan backed away from the bed as nurses and a doctor rushed in. The anguish on his face was replaced by something else, something deeper and darker and Brandt drowned in a cacophony of voices.

He registered the slide of a syringe and then. Just a blissful, quiet expanse of nothing. 

 

 

 

“You are -  _were_  - Chief Analyst. You have access to government secrets, to information above our pay grade. You travelled exclusively with the Secretary. And the ones who captured us? They’re after you. Not us.  _You_.” A second of hesitation, the whisper of a sigh. “Do you know how hard it was to convince the Board to clear you for fieldwork? They told us you’re too valuable. You’re supposed to have your own security details. But you’re part of the team, you know? I- We can’t let you walk after all that. Called in favours, pulled a few strings just to get you back. And I agreed to make sure nothing happens to you out there. I was responsible for your safety and I failed. Every time you walk closer to that edge-  _Fuck_. Listen. You can’t jump when we’re not there to catch you, do you understand? You can’t. I won’t allow you to. I- you’re important, Brandt.”

There’s a gentle pressure against his right eyebrow, lips and breath and too many secrets in between.

“You’re important.”

 

 

 

Brandt would never get over Croatia. He couldn’t, even if he tried. He was hardwired for remembrance. The nightmares would still haunt his dreams and the Secretary would sometimes say ‘ _hi_ ’, sat next to him looking over a garden of flowers and skeletons in an eternity of autumns. He would still hear voices inside his head and they spoke in treacherous, cruel tongues ( _unlucky thirteenth, aren’t you, dearest Agent Brandt?_ ). 

But he remembered more than Croatia, now that he allowed himself to. 

The thrill of immersing himself into a mission and riding the brand of adrenaline high that only came with life-threatening pursuits. The sleek, beautifully-cut lines of his Italian suits. Jane, who surged to challenges like a Goddess of War intent on brimstones and glory. Witty, exasperating Benji and his collection of high-tech toys. And Ethan. 

 _Ethan Hunt._  

“Are you ready?”

Brandt thumbed the cords around his waist to test its strength, adjusted the straps between his thighs as he listened in on Jane’s conversation with their target. “Yes. Magpie?”

“Fifteen seconds and counting. Just stick that virus into their mainframe and I’ll do the rest.”

He placed a foot forward. The wind was picking up and he would need to do this quickly, before Security noticed the discrepancy in their rather meagre guest list. “I’m all set, Falcon.”

Ethan’s voice was calm and measured when he said, “Jump.”

Brandt spread his arms, teetered over the edge for half a second, closed his eyes and jumped.

_We’ll catch you._


End file.
